The Last Threshold tns-4

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Not him.” There was no room for debate in Tiago’s tone, and Jarlaxle was surprised that the brash young warrior was so openly challenging him. Given that, it wasn’t an argument Jarlaxle thought prudent to have, and besides, he knew that he could facilitate his own escape if necessary, but wouldn’t likely be able to help Athrogate get safely away. He turned to the dwarf and whispered, “Up above,” and Athrogate nodded his agreement and understanding. At the top of the ladder, Jarlaxle had enacted an enchantment from his wide-brimmed, hugely-plumed hat to create an extra-dimensional room as a safe haven.

  Jarlaxle summoned his nightmare and rode off with the three lizard-riders, and Athrogate was fast indeed up the long stairwell to the safety of that secret room. Athrogate never shied from a fight, but these were, after all, dark elves.

  “That is an amazing shield,” Jarlaxle remarked some time later, when he and Tiago were in the forge room, looking down the line of craftsmen working the glowing ovens. His eye roamed to the spider hilt of the sword at his hip as he added, “Recently forged?”

  Tiago laughed. “It was the second item created by the re-fired great forge of this complex.”

  “The sword being the first,” Jarlaxle stated.

  Tiago drew the blade and held it up for Jarlaxle to see. It was crafted of the same glassteel substance as the shield, and similarly flecked with sparkling diamonds, with its black spider web quillan and spider-shaped handle.

  “Gol’fanin’s work,” Jarlaxle said, and that recognition obviously startled the young Baenre warrior.

  “An old friend,” Jarlaxle explained. “Is he around?”

  “He is, but resting, I expect. I will pass along your well-wishes.”

  Tiago was hedging, Jarlaxle knew, afraid that if he brought the two together, Jarlaxle would gain some upper hand over him in his relationship with that most important blacksmith.

  “House Xorlarrin will go to war with Bregan D’aerthe, then?” Jarlaxle asked bluntly, and Tiago’s eyes popped open wide. “If it is found that these three were associated with Kimmuriel’s band, I mean. Since they killed a noble-or is that merely suspicion?”

  That last part was no minor quibble. Drow killing drow was an acceptable practice in Menzoberranzan, as long as no definitive evidence revealed the killer.

  “Brack’thal Xorlarrin,” Tiago explained.

  Jarlaxle knew the mage. “Interesting. I had thought him driven mad by the Spellplague.”

  “Son of Zeerith and elderboy of the House,” Tiago said.

  “And you have definitive proof of this crime?”

  “Does it matter? This is not Menzoberranzan, and in this place, the Xorlarrins are free to make the rules. You would do well to learn the truth of these three and deliver them to us posthaste.”

  A wry grin spread across Jarlaxle’s face, an amused look that he was all too willing to share with Tiago.

  “You truly believe that?” he asked.

  Tiago remained stone-faced.

  “Your great-aunt Quenthel would be as amused as I am by your thinly veiled threat, no doubt.”

  “As amused as she would be to learn that Jarlaxle of Bregan D’aerthe associates with the heretic Drizzt Do’Urden, who fought against her family in the battle that killed her beloved matron mother? The heretic Drizzt Do’Urden who killed her brother, my grandfather Dantrag, the greatest weapons master Menzoberranzan has ever known?”

  Jarlaxle almost pointed out that, if such was the case, then Drizzt should not have prevailed in that duel with Dantrag, but he wisely held silent.

  “You make bold claims, young Master Baenre,” he said.

  “The three claimed to be of Bregan D’aerthe.”

  “That only means that they were clever, not that they were telling the truth,” Jarlaxle replied. “But wait, are you saying that among the trio was the rogue Do’Urden?”

  Tiago stared at him hard, and Jarlaxle recognized that this one was no fool.

  “Interesting,” Jarlaxle added, feigning surprise. “The rogue Do’Urden is still alive?”

  “And of Bregan D’aerthe,” Tiago said dryly.

  “A clever lie.”

  “So you say, and so you would have to say. The human with the drow once accompanied you to Menzoberranzan,” Tiago argued.

  “Long before you were born, if it even is the same human.”

  “Berellip Xorlarrin attested to it. Would you doubt a priestess of the Spider Queen?”

  That, too, brought some laughter from Jarlaxle. When in his life had he not doubted those priestesses?

  “That would make him a very, very old human,” Jarlaxle said. “And I assure you, I have not seen this man of whom you speak in half a century or more. Nor is he a member of Bregan D’aerthe. Nor is Drizzt Do’Urden a member-if that is your suspicion regarding the drow’s true identity-nor has he ever been. Nor would he ever desire to be, as you would understand if you knew anything at all about the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.”

  Tiago eyed him with clear suspicion. “I will ask such of Drizzt Do’Urden himself,” Tiago remarked, “right before I kill him.”

  He meant it, Jarlaxle knew from looking at him. This one was brash, and brimming with confidence, and apparently very well armed and armored, even beyond what one might expect from a Baenre. Jarlaxle made a mental note to look more deeply into the growing reputation of this Tiago Baenre-and of Ravel Xorlarrin, he silently added when he noted the spellspinner coming his way.

  From his recent visits to Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle knew that those two were among the most prominent of the new generation of the city. Gromph had spoken highly of Tiago, and had hinted that Tiago would likely soon supplant Andzrel as weapons master of the First House. Through his eyepatch, Jarlaxle had detected quite a bit of magic on Tiago, and the overwhelming glow from that shield and sword went a long way toward confirming Gromph’s suspicions, for truly Andzrel would not be pleased to find Tiago wielding such wondrous items, and truly, Matron Mother Quenthel would not have allowed Gol’fanin to craft this paired sword and shield for Tiago if she meant to keep him behind Andzrel in the house hierarchy.

  Of course, if Tiago went after Drizzt, as he had declared, whatever his arms and armaments, then Andzrel would likely have a long and quiet reign in his position as weapons master, with no living heir apparent.

  Jarlaxle managed a slight smile at that notion, but only a slight one, for there was something unsettling about this young one-and his allies, Jarlaxle thought, when Ravel, equally confident and brash, joined them.

  He was Jarlaxle, long-time leader of Bregan D’aerthe, feared and respected throughout Menzoberranzan for centuries. That respect was not so apparent in the expressions and words of these two. Was he becoming old and irrelevant?

  Were these two rising? Was this their hour?

  Would Drizzt be quick enough this time against the descendant of Dantrag?

  “Ye thinkin’ o’ tellin’ me?” Athrogate asked, long after he and Jarlaxle had left Gauntlgrym. The two were upon their mounts, Jarlaxle on his hell horse and Athrogate astride his hell boar.

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Ye been full o’ glum since ye came back from them drow.”

  “They are not a pleasant group.”

  “More than that,” Athrogate said. “Ye ain’t even telled me about the fired forges!”

  Jarlaxle slowed his mount and considered his dwarf companion. “Truly it is a wondrous place and already creating extraordinary weapons.”

  “For damned drow elfs!” Athrogate said. He spat upon the ground, drawing a wide-eyed expression from Jarlaxle. “Not yerself. Them other ones.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It’s Entreri, ain’t it?”

  “Might be, given their description.”

  “Nah, I’m meanin’ that it’s Entreri what’s got ye all glummed up. Ye ain’t thought much on him in a lot o’ years, but now it’s in yer face again.”

  “I did what I had to do, for
his sake as well as our own.”

  “So ye keep tellin’ yerself, for fifty years now.”

  “You disagree?”

  “Nah, not me place in doing that. I weren’t there, but I’m knowin’ what ye was facin’, both from them Netheril dogs and from yer own kin and kind.” He nodded ahead to the side of the road, where a darker patch of shadow loomed, a familiar drow standing beside it. “And speakin’ o’ yer kin and kind …”

  The two dismissed their magical mounts and walked over to join Kimmuriel. They didn’t have to deliver any report, of course, for Kimmuriel had been in on the trip to Gauntlgrym, telepathically linked with Jarlaxle throughout his meeting with the Xorlarrins and their entourage.

  “Their progress has been considerable and laudable,” Kimmuriel started the conversation. “Matron Mother Quenthel was wise in allowing the Xorlarrins to make this journey. The bowels of Gauntlgrym will prove valuable and profitable to us all, I am sure.”

  “It remains preliminary,” Jarlaxle replied. “Many know of the place now, so it is likely that the Xorlarrins will find trials yet to come.”

  “Aye, not many dwarfs thinking to let the durned drow have Gauntlgrym for their own,” Athrogate put in, and both dark elves glanced at him, Jarlaxle’s amusement clear on his face, Kimmuriel’s not so much.

  “There will be a lot of dead dwarves then,” Kimmuriel said dryly, and he turned back to Jarlaxle, visually dismissing the foolish dwarf. “This settlement will validate our surface concerns.”

  “It will surely allow us greater access to the drow marketplace, since it is an easier journey by far than Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle agreed. “A pity that we have so abandoned the nearer points.”

  “Luskan,” Kimmuriel said, and with clear annoyance, for he and Jarlaxle had argued quite vehemently over the disposition of the City of Sails. Jarlaxle had wanted Bregan D’aerthe to remain significant among the high captains who ruled the city, but Kimmuriel, his sights set elsewhere, had overruled him.

  “Come now, my cerebral friend,” Jarlaxle said. “You see the value of Luskan now, more clearly. You can deny that truth, but not with any conviction. We need to go back there in force, and become again the quiet power behind the high captains. I would be happy to lead that effort.”

  “Yes,” Kimmuriel agreed, and Jarlaxle tipped his hat, grinning until Kimmuriel added, “and no.”

  “You presume much.” Jarlaxle didn’t hide his anger.

  “Shall I remind you of the terms of our partnership?” Kimmuriel was quick to reply.

  “Bregan D’aerthe is not yours alone.”

  Kimmuriel bowed in deference to Jarlaxle, and that action muted much of Jarlaxle’s building anger. Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel shared the leadership of Bregan D’aerthe, but for the sake of the band, Kimmuriel could assume control whenever Jarlaxle’s other interests-notably, the many friends, including a fair number of iblith, or non-drow, he kept on the surface-conflicted with what, in Kimmuriel’s judgment, was best for the mercenary band. Ever logical and driven by the purest pragmatism, Kimmuriel would never use this agreement beyond its intended scope.

  Kimmuriel had witnessed the exchange with Tiago and the others in the bowels of Gauntlgrym, and so he understood the true desire behind Jarlaxle’s gracious offer to lead Bregan D’aerthe back to the City of Sails, and so, indeed, Kimmuriel’s invoking of their agreement was entirely proper regarding the interests of Bregan D’aerthe. Jarlaxle had done well in selecting this brilliant lieutenant to serve in his stead.

  Too well, perhaps.

  “We have possibilities with a collection of Netherese lords in Shade Enclave,” Kimmuriel said. “They are quite interested in facilitating an underground trade network.”

  “Shade Enclave?” Jarlaxle muttered. He had never been to the place, in what had been the desert of Anauroch before the Spellplague and the great upheavals that had so changed the land.

  “You would be the perfect facilitator,” Kimmuriel said. “In your efforts against the primordial, you delivered a great blow to the minions of Thay, as these lords are aware. They will be pleased to meet you and begin the negotiations.”

  “What of Luskan?”

  “I will deal with Luskan.”

  “You should speak with the Baenres.”

  “I already have.”

  They will lose their prized young weapons master, Jarlaxle’s fingers flashed.

  I will see to it, came Kimmuriel’s cryptic response.

  Jarlaxle did well to hide his frustration with this drow who always seemed one step ahead of everyone else-at least he thought he had hidden it until he realized that he hadn’t enacted the psychic shields afforded by his eyepatch and Kimmuriel was probably fully reading his mind.

  “Shade Enclave, then,” Jarlaxle said.

  Kimmuriel stepped into the shadows and was gone.

  “Where’s this place?” Athrogate asked. “Me bum’s already starting to hurt.”

  “Oh, it will hurt from riding,” Jarlaxle replied, still staring at the now-diminishing shadows. “A thousand miles to the east.”

  “Right in the empire, then.”

  “The heart of the Empire of Netheril,” Jarlaxle explained.

  They summoned their mounts, nightmare and hell boar, and started away.

  They rode easily, as usual, at a steady and consistent pace, trotting more than galloping though neither of their summoned mounts would tire.

  “Ye think it really was him?” Athrogate asked as the sun lowered in the sky behind them.

  “Who?”

  “Ah, but don’t ye play clever with me,” the dwarf demanded. “I’m knowin’ ye too well for that.”

  “Then it might be time for me to kill you.”

  “Too well for that joke to be anything more than a joke, too,” said the dwarf. “So do ye think it really was Artemis Entreri?”

  “I don’t know,” Jarlaxle admitted. “He should be long dead, but even in those last years, it seemed to me that he wasn’t aging as a normal human might. He certainly wasn’t losing his edge in battle, at least.”

  “Shade stuff?” Athrogate asked. “Ye think his dagger sucked a bit o’ long life into him when he sticked a shade?”

  “That was the reasoning,” Jarlaxle agreed, but then added, “Was.”

  Athrogate looked up at him curiously. “So what’re ye thinkin’ now?”

  Jarlaxle shrugged. “It could be the dagger, but with any of the life-stealing it performs and not that from a shade necessarily. Perhaps such a draw of an enemy’s life energy-any enemy-adds to one’s vitality and lifespan.”

  Athrogate, who had been cursed with long life as part of a long-ago punishment, snorted at the horror.

  “Or, more likely, Artemis Entreri is long dead, and no more than dust and bones,” Jarlaxle added.

  “That Tiago fellow thought it was him.”

  “Tiago Baenre isn’t old enough to know of Entreri’s visit to Menzoberranzan.”

  “But ye said his sister-”

  “Perhaps,” Jarlaxle interrupted, and that uncharacteristic interjection alone clued both of them in to how intriguing and unsettling this possibility was to the drow mercenary.

  Jarlaxle gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head vigorously. “No matter,” he said, unconvincingly. “More likely, Drizzt and Dahlia have found a companion, whomever it might be, and Drizzt fed him that story to save them all when they were taken by the Xorlarrins.”

  “Nah, that’s not Drizzt’s way,” Athrogate came back, and the response surprised Jarlaxle-until he looked down at his companion to witness Athrogate’s smile. The dwarf was prodding him, trying to draw him out.

  “Drizzt ain’t one to weave a net o’ lies in advance,” Athrogate added. “That’s yer own way, not his.”

  “Which is why I thrive while he merely survives,” Jarlaxle quipped. “I am sure that he and Dahlia will find a place soon enough. He always does.”

  “Oh no ye don’t,” said Athrogate.

  “I am sur
e that I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “I’m talking about Entreri, and ye’re knowin’ it full well. That one’s ghost’s been following yerself for half-a-hunnerd years.”

  Jarlaxle scoffed at that notion. “I have buried closer friends, and many lovers.”

  “Aye, but how many needed buryin’ because o’ yer own actions?” Athrogate said.

  There it was, spoken openly, and Jarlaxle suppressed his initial response to lash out at the dwarf. Athrogate was right, he knew. Jarlaxle had betrayed Entreri to the Netherese many years before, when the empire had come in force for the sword, Charon’s Claw. It wasn’t often in his long life that Jarlaxle had been trapped without recourse, but the Netherese had done it, and before physically surrounding the pair, the powerful lords of Netheril had appealed to greater powers in Jarlaxle’s own circle of potential allies, to Kimmuriel and Matron Mother Quenthel.

  Indeed, the snares of Netheril had been complete.

  And so their offer had been accepted.

  Jarlaxle said no more for a long while, letting his thoughts slip back to Baldur’s Gate, the city where the final play had occurred. In exchange for his freedom, Jarlaxle had facilitated the takedown of Artemis Entreri, and indeed had even trapped the man in one of his extra-dimensional pockets for the Netherese. Both Entreri and Jarlaxle would have surely died otherwise, Jarlaxle told himself-then and now and a thousand times in between. And he had only chosen the route of betrayal because he had expected to quickly launch a rescue of Entreri, though likely one without retrieving the sword, of course, soon after his flight from Baldur’s Gate.

  But that rescue attempt had never occurred, and indeed, many years passed before Jarlaxle had ever learned of the conspiracy working against him. Kimmuriel and the Baenres, for Jarlaxle’s own sake, had worked in concert to break down Jarlaxle’s magical defenses and thus allow the psionicist to invade Jarlaxle’s mind and alter the details of the Baldur’s Gate betrayal. As far as Jarlaxle could recall, just a few short hours after he had abandoned Entreri to the Netherese, that scenario had never happened, the actual events replaced by the suggestion of a betrayal by Entreri against Jarlaxle. Thus, by the time Jarlaxle had even sorted out the truth and remembered that Entreri had been taken as a prisoner of the Netherese, it was too late for Jarlaxle to do anything about it.